Trinket
by glanmire
Summary: Hannibal meets Effie Trinket in a bar, and they talk about murder.


Hannibal walked into the bar and thought to himself that surely some joke could be made out of that, no? It was a different sort of place than he was used to. He could easily imagine Will's type of bar; the kind that wouldn't mind if he came in still clad in his fishing clothes, a wet dog by his side. Will would probably have a beer, though he would not say much to anyone.

Hannibal was not like Will. He did not want a beer, or a bar with an open fire and milling children, and tonight was no exception.  
And yet there was something amiss tonight. What was he doing here, in this sleek and modern place, where music thrummed and bodies pulsated to the lights?  
Curiosity, it had been, just curiosity. He had wished to experience something new, but nothing he had seen here had been interesting or repelling. It was simply boring, and that was something Hannibal could not abide.  
He turned to leave, willing to forsake his purple drink for some meaningful activity, when someone shoved into him roughly.  
"Excuse me," he said softly although he was not at fault. The woman pushed past him with a curt nod, and his hand clenched around the ridiculous drink like it was a slender neck.

"That was simply rude!" a high voice stated shrilly, and Hannibal turned to follow the sound. Another woman was scowling, similarly-dressed in the outlandish clothing that seemed popular here. Feathers protruded from every possible crevice on her thin body, some even delicately glued to her eyelashes.

"Effie Trinket," she stated, holding out a pale, limp hand to Hannibal. Her nails were pointed at the tips and had tiny gems stuck on them. He accepted the handshake, amused. "I do apologise for my friend's dreadful behaviour, but that's Narcissa, always thinking of herself-" Effie paused her frankly frantic speed of talking and looked at Hannibal, curiosity lighting her eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name-" It was a question, not a statement, the way she asked it, the last word ending on an unnatural-sounding high.

He contemplated the question, and decided on honesty. "My name is Hannibal Lecter," he said simply.  
"And what district are you from, with that accent, Hannibal?"  
"I'm afraid I do not follow-"  
"You must be just visting then! Here for your first Hunger Games? You're in for quite a treat, we have some splendid young tributes this year."  
"The Hunger Games," he repeated, rolling the strange term around in his mouth, like how he would swirl wine before swallowing. "Forgive my deplorable memory, Ms Trinket-"  
"Effie-''  
"Ms Effie. Would you be so kind to explain the rules of these Games for me?"  
"Rules? My dear Hannibal, there are no rules. Well-" and she pursed her green lips as though something distasteful had got stuck in her teeth "of course, the tributes aren't allowed to resort to cannibalism, but that's about it."  
"That sounds-" and then he paused. He had been just about to say _restricting_, but Effie may not approve of that particular adjective. "That sounds like a sensible precaution."  
"Well yes I suppose so. It's not much of a Hunger Games if the tributes can just go around feasting on each other," she added. Her voice clearly showed disgust, but Hannibal was uncertain whether the disgust was aimed at the cannibalism itself, or just the idea of tributes having enough to eat.

A silence swelled between them then, and Hannibal understood that if he turned back to his drink now, she would leave and that would be that.  
Instead he gestured to the neon seat beside him.  
"I have been terribly rude, my apologies. Would you care to take a seat?" Hannibal asked, gesturing to the neon stool beside him. Effie blinked twice, the feathers in her eyelashes fluttering like a heartbeat. Her legs were abnormally pale and dotted with flecks of glitter, but he noted that she crossed her ankles when she sat.

"Effie, would you perhaps tell me more about the Hunger Games? I find the subject holds a certain appeal."  
"Certainly! Well, as you know there are twelve districts. A boy and a girl are chosen from each-"  
As she spoke, Hannibal saw it all. The thin, underfed, childish bodies huddled in solidarity until one was chosen and separated from the relative safety of the herd, immediately branded as an outcast.  
"I imagine that the Reaping is one of the greatest moments," he interrupted, his voice soft.  
"Yes," Effie said, her eyes appraising him. "Would you believe that most people simply don't see that Hannibal? They have the nerve to call it tedious!"  
"It's history being made, is it not? The moment when a child becomes a tribute, a hero. I would find it glorious."  
"I absolutely agree. Let me tell you Hannibal, it's quite reassuring to find someone who finds the Reapings interesting. It's history, like you said!"  
She rapped three purple nails on the bar counter to illustrate her enthusiasm, a short piano piece on the sleek wood.

"And after the Reaping?"

"That's when I come in as an escort-"  
He could imagine it himself, being a mentor, guiding and urging and leading a young person. Encouraging them to kill not just for survival, but for sport, for entertainment.  
He would mentor a young boy - he could almost picture him now, an indistinct figure with almost familiar dark curls and a stubborn face. The boy would learn to love the killing by the end- and with Hannibal's guidance, how could his tribute not win?

The bar had grown quieter around them now. The strangely dressed people had evidently called it a night, and it was just him and Effie left, discussing their favourite murders. She didn't consider them murders though; she saw them as triumphs, as victories.  
Hannibal contemplated how peculiar it was to find someone who dressed and spoke so differently to him, and yet saw with a vision similar to his.

He detachedly considered how easy it would be to kill her tonight. She would make quite a spectacle, and he could do it in a tribute to the tributes- let one of the organisers be chosen and killed for once.  
But he brushed the thought aside like he would lint from his suit. Effie had done nothing to deserve death tonight. Their conversation had been very enlightening, and the desire to kill had left him.

She was speaking about the Victory Tour when he finally cut across her. "Thank you so much for educating me, Ms Trinket, but I'm afraid I must be going now. It was a pleasure." He extended a hand, and she shook it, firmer this time.  
"Not at all Hannibal, not at all. Anytime."

He walked out of the bar, and only when he had reached the doorway did he glance back. Effie was still sitting on the neon barstool, and absentmindedly drummed her nails to the beat of the bar's music.  
From this viewpoint, the disco lights seemed to do odd things to the glitter on her skin. She glowed under the myriad of flashing colours, and Hannibal found himself thinking that the young Effie was misnamed.

She was no trinket.


End file.
